


Steady Rollin' Man

by Devilc



Category: Hurt Locker
Genre: Character of Color, Chromatic Character, Dark Agenda Challenge, M/M, Military, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iraq 2004.  Insurgents and IEDs vs. EOD. Sgt. JT Sanborn reflects on a long and bloody day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady Rollin' Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddegg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddegg/gifts).



> Thanks to my "honey bee" beta.
> 
> Title is because I had the works of Robert Johnson on repeat as I wrote.
> 
> Prompt was: Gen character study of either of the guys is fine but, well, I can't see how anyone can watch this movie and NOT see the slash, so some sex would be delightful! Angst it up if you like or make it matter of fact (hell, make it slapstick comedy if you think you can do it!) and for further prompt material the drunken fighting/wrestling/rodeo riding scene left a definite impression so anything inspired by that would be great. (May I also suggest the phrase "ridden hard and put away wet" to spark thoughts off.?)

It's not that Sanborn's against doing things by hand, or thinks that all detonations should be done from a distance, with the robot, because sometimes, that's just not practical or possible.

Like right now.

(Unfortunately.)

Sanborn has no idea who Sergeant Barnes was (and they know this poor bastard's name is Barnes because by some fluke, his name is still legible on what's left of his torso) other than he's the booby who stumbled into a bomb making workshop in the backyard of an abandoned house and got killed when he set off the boobytrap.

Only, if they're going to send anything back for his family to put into the ground (and not bring what's left of the shed crashing down) James has got to disarm the rest of that evil piece of shit by hand before they clear out the rest of the unexploded ordinance.

The fact that he strips off all of his protective gear as soon as he gets done assessing the situation speaks volumes. "I've got two more shells here, plus what looks like another two grenades, and then there's the rest of the crap in here." His voice is low and raspy over the com channel.

"Die comfortable, sir," Eldridge replies, before looking at Sanborn for his cue, and Sanborn signals for him to take the high ground on the roof top. At a time like this, they keep their mouths shut and their eyes peeled.

The situation isn't exactly helped by the fact that Barnes's squad is also helping secure the site.

Yes, it is a good thing to have an extra five or six pair of eyes.

But not it's not good when those eyes are attached to trigger fingers made itchy by the sight of seeing their First Sergeant die in a flash, or by seeing his headless body (which looks like it's been hit by a Paul Bunyan size sawed-off shotgun) collecting flies in the sun.

Except for an epic round of cursing at the start about shoddy workmanship, James is characteristically quiet as he works, speaking only when he thinks something's worth saying. According to him, if this damn IED had been constructed the right way, this shed, the back half of the house, Barnes, and probably a third of his squad, would have ceased to exist.

(Except as a few personals, memories, and a fine red spatter that would be gone when the rainy season came, or when this compound got bulldozed to prevent it from being used again by insurgents.)

But now, James has to deal with a badly made IED that's been damaged and rendered even more unpredictable by the blast. Oh, and Barnes pretty much landed on top of what was left of the parts that didn't blow. The flies, and the gore, and the stench can't possibly be helping.

But you wouldn't know that by looking at James, there in his shirtsleeves, cans over his ears, working. At times like this, Sanborn thinks, ice water is too hot to run in those veins.

"Talk to me Sanborn," James' voice crackles in his ears.

"Your 20's clear," he replies. "No Hadjis inside the perimeter."

"It's looking good from my POV," Eldridge says before James can ask.

"Stay salty. I'm about half way through taking this piece of shit apart."

"We got you," Sanborn says and forces himself to scan his sector again, but a different way so that he doesn't fall into a pattern.

*****

When he left for basic, his cousin DeRon, who had served in the Gulf War, said to him, "You gonna meet all kind of people, JT. All kind of people."

Sanborn hadn't known what to say about that because, _duh_, of course he was going to meet all kinds of people. He knew that.

But he hadn't known what it _meant_. Not yet. He hadn't experienced being around/living with/depending on just about every kind of person the United States produced, from Tennessee good-ole-boys to wannabe gangstas straight out of Compton. Knowing something and knowing what it _means_ turned out to be completely different things, and it's probably the most important thing he's gotten out of enlistment.

(DeRon also said to get a trade out of joining the Army. He had, and he now owned his own diesel engine repair shop.

Sanborn _has_ gotten a trade out of joining. The problem is, there's not exactly a whole lot of demand for urban Scout-Snipers in civilian life outside of law enforcement, and he's not so sure he wants to do that. He also doesn't want to work for Blackwater. Eldridge had, in that corn-fed way of his, mentioned that poachers made good money the last time they talked about their plans for after. Sanborn doesn't want to know how "a nice white boy" like Eldridge knows the kind of money that "an elk with a big rack" fetches on the market.)

*****

James doesn't say much on the way back to base. Just chain-smokes and fidgets with a clump of wire and electrical tape that must be the thing that almost killed him -- the fuse that's a dud, or improperly constructed, or both.

And goddamn if Sanborn can figure James out. On the one hand, here's a guy who insists on doing it by hand every time out in the field -- risking all their lives -- just so that he can get his rush from rolling the bones with Death. But on the other hand, Sanborn couldn't have asked for a better man at his side the day they ran into those dumb-ass contractors and those fucking insurgents. The contractors had started falling to pieces when the first shots came out of nowhere, but James had kept all of their shit together, never once lost his frosty cool, and even made sure that Sanborn had priority on the remaining water and juice as they waited for the sun to set, or for those motherfuckers to give up playing possum ... if they were playing possum. (Which they weren't. James's spotting and Sanborn's shooting had seen to that.)

And after, James had taken both of them into his quarters and they'd all gotten completely drunk. Which was as good or better than anything the damn shrink could do for them after a day like that.

(Sanborn remembers how James laughed and bucked his hips and the way his voice sounded when he shouted about what a "wild ride" Sanborn was as they tussled on the floor, a wild ride just like James knew he would be. Remembers how he ended up fucking James the very next night, smacking that lily white ass as he bucked into it, showing James just how wild the ride could get. He pushes both memories aside and forces himself to keep his eyes on the road, forces himself to stay salty.)

Or, take today for instance. What was left of Barnes was, to be blunt, just so much hamburger, and yet James had been so careful with the body. As much out of respect as safety.

(And yet, he let Sanborn ride his ass bareback. Insisted on it, actually, and Sanborn _knows_ he's not the first man to grapple with James like that.)

Someday, Sanborn might be able to put his head around how Staff Sergeant William James is _all_ of these men.

(Someday. Maybe.)

*****

They sit in the dressed up warehouse that serves as the Enlisted rec room, waiting because the Colonel's got a full list of people to talk to today and because they're done with the debriefing. Barnes offed himself bright and early at 9am this morning, James defused the last of the ordinance just after 12 noon so they could turn it over to the Engineers, and it's 3pm now and nobody has dismissed them. They could get something to snack on, but it's going to take some serious hunger pains before Sanborn can even think of food, and, big surprise, nobody feels like playing a game.

Finally James reaches into his kit and takes out an X-acto knife and a pair of needlenose pliers and goes to work on the mass of wires and tape on the table in front of them.

"What's the verdict?" Eldridge asks after James has it completely apart and strung out across the scuffed laminate in a series of pieces.

James takes one last drag off his Camel and stubs it out. "Defective switch."

Eldridge snorts derisively and says, "Well, yes, sir, but what exactly was wrong?"

James holds up a small plastic box, pries it apart with a twist of his fingers, exposing the insides. "It's broken." Using his finger, he traces the path of the wiring to a gap on the circuit board. "No connection. That's what you get for using cheap parts." He clicks it back together and says, "They also wired the whole thing in a series."

Eldridge puzzles that over. "Like dominoes?"

James snaps the switch back together, frowns at Eldridge's imagery, then says, "Yeah, I guess you could say that. This here," he rattles the defective switch "is the missing dominoes."

Sanborn hears himself ask, "Any reason they wired it that way?"

James reaches for his Camels, but the pack is empty. With a sigh he crumples it and leaves it in the ashtray. He contents himself by playing with his Zippo, flicking it on and off, as he speaks, "For what they were doing? No. I can't think of any advantage -- sometimes you want that delay, or the ability to string the charge out for maximum destruction, but for this ...." He shrugs.

"Probably just ignorant," Sanborn mutters under his breath.

James snaps his lighter shut with finality and stands. "Fuck it. I'm going back to my quarters. I got a bottle of Jack in my foot locker. You two are welcome to join me."

"We are not off duty, sir," Sanborn reminds him with a calmness he does not feel. There's no good reason they haven't been dismissed, but they are still on duty and You. Do. Not. Drink. On. Duty.

(You also don't fuck him if you're a guy, the little voice at the back his head snarks.)

James shrugs. "Let them bring me up on charges then. I am not going out again today." He grins wickedly. "And if I'm drunk, I can't go."

Eldridge looks at their briskly departing NCO, smiles at Sanborn, and says, "You can't argue with logic like that, sir."

Part of what makes for a good Scout-Sniper is a proclivity for a certain kind of risk taking, because sniping means danger, no two ways about it. Yeah, _right now_ he and Eldridge have an assignment with EOD, but that doesn't mean they couldn't be reassigned and find themselves up in Afghanistan's hills hunting down Bin Laden. A Scout-Sniper loves to game with Death, too. Only they stack the deck with a high-powered scope, an excruciatingly well maintained rifle (be it single shot or semi-auto), by leaving nothing to chance, and going by the rulebook because every fucking word in it is there _for a reason_.

Sanborn closes his eyes, counts to ten and says, "Fuck it, let's go."

Eldridge slings his gun on and claps him on the shoulder. "They probably forgot about us, JT."

"Probably." He sighs and accepts the fact that, right now, drunk or sober, unless insurgents are coming over the walls, none of them is worth a pitcher of warm spit.

A Scout-Sniper has to be edgy, has to be able to handle extreme stress and stay cool, but a jumpy one who shoots at shadows? That man puts his life and the lives of the rest of his team in danger.

And if command wants to bring him up on charges for blowing off some steam? Fuck them. He's got less than a month to go before he's back in the states.

Nothing they can come up with for punishment is going to be scarier than spending a day in the field with James.

(Or a night spent fucking in his bed.)


End file.
